


Things you said when you thought I was asleep

by LostinFic



Series: Mercier x Betty oneshots [11]
Category: A Passionate Woman (TV), Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Teninch Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Betty is a nurse during WWII</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things you said when you thought I was asleep

They say that when you lose one of your senses, the others become more acute. Deprived of his sight, it’s her smell, Jean-François noticed first: sweat, for she worked relentlessly, and a perfume, cheap but not too sweet. Just a hint on her skin but it stood out amongst the scents of dried blood, gauze and chemicals. He caught a whiff of it when she leaned over him for the first time.

And he thought of the magnolia tree under which he used to sit. Surely her skin must be the same creamy white and pink blush as the blossoms. And he thought of the girls of Montmartre and the petals between their legs.

Idle days and wild days all in one person he couldn’t see.

But the nurse’s voice was nothing like the girls from Montmartre. She rarely spoke, and it often vanished in the noisy hospital before reaching his ears, but sometimes-- and what wonderful times they were-- she whispered to him. And if she was close enough, he would discern the sound of her lips parting, of her tongue hesitating on her teeth, of her breathing. The intimacy of it made his skin tingle and his heart race. She only spoke like that to him when she thought he slept: “sweet dreams”, “good morning”, “get well soon.”

And he thought of the butterfly effect, how something as small as the flutter of her voice could raise a storm in his chest.

He noticed another sound: the rasp of skin on skin. She rubbed her hands together before touching him. To warm them, he realized. He wanted to do that for her, to cradle her hands between his, to kiss her knuckles and palms with a hot breath. He would take care of her like she took care of him.

Whereas her voice and words were hesitant, her touch was confident. She removed and reapplied bandages, cleaned his wounds and took his temperature with efficiency. He trusted her from that only.

But there were the less professional touches, the ones that gave him hope: a brush of thumb on his brow, a squeeze of his hand, lingering fingers when removing his hospital gown.

And he thought of the wind on hot summer days, of calm seas lapping at his feet, and of losing someone’s hand in a crowd.

He felt her lips once, but he could have been delirious.

Days went by, he felt better, more conscious, but still the bandages over his eyes remained. He could talk to her now. The medicine made him talk. He would have said anything to make her stay longer.

“I’ve other patients, you know,” she teased, in that evanescent voice of hers.

“But I need you more.”

Then came the day when they declared him cured. He would see again. He would leave the hospital.

He heard her sniff, he tasted tears on the back of her hand. And when she thought he was asleep, he heard her say: “I wish you could stay.”


End file.
